Warm Whispers
by elementarylemon
Summary: Charles Carson just can't take his eyes off Elsie Hughes. One-shot.


_**Author's Notes:** Hi everyone, you might know me from Tumblr - I'm a huge participator in the Charles and Elsie fandom, and recently I have decided to try my hand at writing fiction for this pairing. This was written very early in the morning as a result of caffeine withdrawal and procrastination, but I do hope you will enjoy it. Please forgive any grammatical errors or typos you might find here - this is my first ever submission to and I'm very, very nervous at finding out what you think, and if I do this wonderful pair justice. They've truly captured my heart and I hope this shows in my writing. _

_This is bordering on a **strong T **from my estimation, so if you're not into this, you will probably want to click that X button. Otherwise, please enjoy, and do leave me a review if you have the time. _

_Be warened- there's an unlikely situation ahead!  
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_**Disclaimer:**__ As much as I'd like to own them, these two aren't mine. They belong to Julian Fellowes and ITV1.  
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_No particular timeframe. Enjoy!_

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><p>Elsie Hughes sighed, a husky wisp of a breath escaping her slightly parted lips, the light touches from Charles' Carson's fingers upon the exposed skin of her lower back leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Not too long ago, a touch so intimate as this would have caused her to back away in terror, as unused to touch as she once was. Now, she arched with unashamed pleasure against his palm. She wondered fleetingly how she had become so wanton, so receptive to his desire for her. Was she not the woman who had spent twenty years of her life at Downton, not only devoted to the service of a family which was not her own, but also to denying herself the physical affection of another?<p>

It seemed, to her, part of the package of gaining the title of Housekeeper. A woman in her position could not expose herself to such a risk as becoming with child. It was simply not in Elsie Hughes' repertoire to even contemplate such an idea.

Yet here she was, writhing with unrestrained pleasure as Charles Carson, her butler and colleague, touched her in ways that made her cheeks colour furiously whenever she thought of it.

He had changed her. Not only had he been an ever constant source of friendship and comfort to her for the past twenty years; he had also recently become a source of infinite pleasure. Every night he would come to her parlour; perhaps they would sip a glass of wine while discussing monotonous details of the day and sharing anecdotes; pleasant chatter all too common to the average butler and housekeeper. Yet now he looked upon her with a different kind of gaze; a gaze which Elsie Hughes had never before seen him wear, until that evening last October.

It had all happened so quickly that Elsie barely had time to contemplate her reaction. Charles had stepped into her parlour without knocking, instead choosing to push the door open. Perhaps this was a foolish action on his part; however, he had done this many times before.

The sight which greeted him made the blood rush in his veins and his breath hitch painfully in his lungs.

Elsie sat on her sofa, one stocking half off, her skirts hitched up to her upper thigh, exposing the white skin of her left leg.

For a moment, a thick, deathly silence hung in the room. To Charles, time seemed to have stopped; they were caught in a freeze-frame. Charles gaped, his eyes fixed upon the way in which her fingers rested upon the top of her stocking.

The expression on his face told her everything she needed to know about his feelings towards her.

Elsie spoke first, but what emerged from her mouth was barely audible. Instead, she could only manage a hoarse whisper.

"Charles..." Elsie began, her voice quaking.

Charles did not move, seemingly rooted to the spot. He tried to will his legs to propel himself out of the room, will his mouth to mutter an apology and make his exit, but his body would simply not obey. He remained there, statuesque, without speaking.

"I... I was just changing my stockings. I caught one of them on a nail from the trellis in the gardens this morning." Elsie said hurriedly, suddenly remembering his fixed gaze and quickly dropping her skirts so that they hid her bare leg from Charles' view, blushing all the while. But it was too late. He had seen her beauty; the softness of her legs, the intricate moles which freckled the skin. He could not help it. He was simply awestruck by her.

"I'm-I'm so sorry, Mrs Hughes," Charles stammered, unconsciously slipping back into their well-practiced formality, unusual given the current situation. His embarrassment was acutely apparent now. His voice suddenly dropped even lower than usual, his desire proving increasingly difficult to mask. "I should have knocked," he continued quietly. "I apologise for bursting in on you like this. I'll see you later." Charles' legs suddenly uprooted themselves from their spot and he near stumbled out of the room, the door banging shut behind him as he carelessly slammed it.

Elsie stood motionless by the sofa, one stocking rucked halfway up her leg, her breathing laboured. There was no mistaking the look that Charles had given her. She had seen it before; in the young footman and the stable boy who had both persued her in her youth; but never before had she seen it in her later years. Elsie Hughes did not believe herself to be a beautiful woman; certainly she did not have time to pretty herself up for anybody, especially not for a man. She had no care for such frivolities - who was even there to care how she looked? The only luxury she regularly permitted herself was a new coat, twice a year; this was her only vice. The vice was practical, too; like her personality.

Elsie gulped air into her lungs and sat on her sofa, trying to gain some sense of understanding over what had just occurred, or rather, what they had begun. It wasn't Charles' fault, not by any stretch of the imagination; how was he even to know that she was changing her stockings at ten past two in the afternoon? Stupid, stupid woman! Elsie mentally berated herself for even caring about the minute tear in her stocking, which was hidden by her dress anyhow. If only she had worn the thicker winter dress...

Elsie had loved Charles for years; she had ackowledged that to herself long ago. She was even, she dared to admit to herself, attracted to him; after all, he was a very handsome looking man in his own right. But she had never once dared to think that she craved to know the delicacy of his touch, to feel his calloused fingers graze over the soft swell of her stomach, his warm breath beside her flushed cheek. She became undone in his arms, as carefree as a bird. The effect he had upon her was startling, so strong that it nearly overwhelmed her.

As she lay in Charles' arms, sated and sleepy, he kissed her mussed hair. The colour of claret, he smiled to himself; how very appropriate. Her blue eyes turned towards his brown orbs, softened by tiredness, and she smiled, not the half-smile that she usually graced him with, but a genuine, beaming smile which caused her eyes to glint and the laugh lines to deepen in the creases of her eyes.

His hand tightened around her waist as he inhaled the scent of her, letting it wash over him as it lulled him into calmness. He was intoxicated; there was no other word for it. Drunk on her love, the feel of her, the taste of her kisses. He muttered words of adoration between kisses which were applied liberally to the tops of her breasts, holding her closely as their breathing slowed to a steady rhythm. She whispered in his ear that she loved him; had loved him for so long that she could not remember ever not doing so.

"Happy, darling?" he whispered huskily, a mere breath away from her ear.

"Always," she affirmed, sealing her answer with her lips.


End file.
